She heard their voices, Andrey's, soft and humid, mingled in friendly accord with the heavy bass of her son: "Rise up, awake, you workingmen! On, on, to war, you hungry hosts!" Men ran toward the red flag, raising a clamor; then joining the others, they marched along, their shouts lost in the broad sounds of the song of the revolution.
The mother had heard that song before.

It had often been sung in a subdued tone; and the Little Russian had often whistled it.

But now she seemed for the first time to hear this appeal to unite in the struggle.
"We march to join our suffering mates." The song flowed on, embracing the people.
Some one's face, alarmed yet joyous, moved along beside the mother's, and a trembling voice spoke, sobbing: "Mitya! Where are you going ?" The mother interfered without stopping: "Let him go! Don't be alarmed! Don't fear! I myself was afraid at first, too.

Mine is right at the head--he who bears the standard--that's my son!" "Murderers! Where are you going?
There are soldiers over there!" And suddenly clasping the mother's hand in her bony hands, the tall, thin woman exclaimed: "My dear! How they sing! Oh, the sectarians! And Mitya is singing!" "Don't be troubled!" murmured the mother.

"It's a sacred thing.